My own bonny yacht, by Thomas Spencer (1845-1911)(From How McDougall Topped The Score And Other Verses and Sketches. Sydney : The N.S.W. Bookstall Co., 1906.)

The rider may sing of his high-mettled steed, Or the lover may boast of his lass;

The scholar love books, or the smoker his weed, And the toper find joy in the glass.But poor are their pleasures, when measured by mine, And more perfect the joy that I feel,When steering my bonny yacht over the brine, As the wavelets keep kissing her keel.

With my hand upon the tiller how we glide before the breeze, Not a wrinkle in her well-filled sail; Oh! I feel her pulses quiver, as she dances 0'er the seas, When we fly before a fine, fresh, gale.